


No Illusions

by pippen2112



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, And More Angst, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Fucking Machines, Humiliation, Hurt No Comfort, Kidnapping, M/M, Non-Consensual Bondage, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Non-Consensual Groping, Non-Consensual Touching, Post S12 Divergence, Public Humiliation, Rape/Non-con Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-23
Updated: 2019-01-23
Packaged: 2019-10-14 19:17:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17514389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pippen2112/pseuds/pippen2112
Summary: The fog is the worst part of all this.  From the moment they bring him out of the cryo chamber till the time they put him back in, Wash is doped to the gills and hazy.  Lost and floating, and it’s be so easy just to let himself drift, but he can’t.  If he doesn’t fight, he’ll never forgive himself.Lights flicker on around him, the slur of drunken voices filling the room.  Brisk footfalls, and a familiar pair of fine leather shoes circling him, and Wash tenses.  “Behold, ladies and gentlemen,” comes a crisp accented voice, one that makes chills run down his spine, “one of the prized soldiers of Project Freelancer.”





	No Illusions

**Author's Note:**

> This story came out of rolled kink bingo prompts: "fucking machines" "humiliation" and "aftercare." Yes, some aftercare happens, but it's mostly offscreen.
> 
> For this story, Wash was captured in the fight at the end of season 12 and turned over to Hargrove. This story takes place roughly post season 13.
> 
> Please heed this warnings. This is a not nice story. Not quite Go Back to Sleep levels of fucked up, but not for the faint of heart.

The fog is the worst part of all this. From the moment they bring him out of the cryo chamber till the time they put him back in, Wash is doped to the gills and hazy. Lost and floating, and it’s be so easy just to let himself drift, but he can’t. If he doesn’t fight, he’ll never forgive himself.

Lights flicker on around him, the slur of drunken voices filling the room. Brisk footfalls, and a familiar pair of fine leather shoes circling him, and Wash tenses. “Behold, ladies and gentlemen,” comes a crisp accented voice, one that makes chills run down his spine, “one of the prized soldiers of Project Freelancer.”

Wash cringes, staring intently at the patch of floor beneath him. Those few square inches are safe. If he looks too far forward, he’ll see the reinforced, magnetized cuffs around his wrists, elbows, and forearms, suspending him from the ceiling. Too far backward, and he’ll see his splayed open legs. Or Chairman Hargrove circling him like a shark, pulling on a pair of blue latex gloves as he goes. Or the leering faces of the bedecked men and women surrounding him, holding drinks and nibbling appetizers, and _nopenopenopefuckthat_. He closes his eyes and grits his teeth and prays to whatever sadistic excuse for a god that will listen that he passes out.

Distantly, he hears the sound of wheels rolling toward him, and he shudders.

Slick fingers slide over his hole. Grunting, Wash clenches every muscle, fighting the drugs and the fog and the whole goddamn world because fuck if he’s gonna lie here and take it.

“Oh, the soldier is restless today,” Hargrove says, crooking his fingers, searching. “To be fair, the Freelancer program never succeeded in creating truly useful assets who could function in the established UNSC system. This model, however, is particularly rambunctious. Just our luck.”

A ripple of laughter rolls through the crowd, sharp and derisive. 

“No matter. It will fall into line in the end.”

Wash squeezes his eyes shut, thrashing against his bond; he gets away for a second before the momentum sends him swinging back into place. He holds his breath and doesn’t give an inch.

_“Easy. Bare down for me, Wash. Don’t wanna hurt you.”_

The fog is thick and heavy like a blanket. For a split second, Wash remembers warm hand spanning his waist. Warm kisses against his shoulders. He relaxes, and another finger pushes into him, callous and cruel.

 _Nopenopenopefuckthatfuckthat!_ Not here. Not now. Those memories are precious; they don’t deserve to be tarnished by this. Hargrove’s already taken so much from him. _Not those too._

“It’s a proud one,” Hargrove goes on. “Stubborn and unruly. But no matter, I’ve found with enough persuasion--” He thrusts deep and hooks his fingers into Wash’s prostate; Wash bites his lip bloody to keep silent, “--even the proud ones crack.”

The clatter of wheels draws nearer. The _fucking_ contraption. He’s not even surprised anymore, just busy trying to swallow a knot of dread. Hargrove only ever brings him out of cold storage when he wants to turn Wash into a spectacle. A thing. To hurt him and humiliate him. And every time they string him up for one of Hargrove’s audiences, they have the machine at the ready. He doesn’t wanna think about what awaits him tonight. He can take it--he knows he can take it--but that doesn’t mean he’s not gonna fight.

Head heavy between his shoulders, Wash keeps his eyes closed and waits. Does his best not to squirm away as the probing fingers pull free and a cold blunt object presses against his hole. He tenses against it. Won’t let it in without a fight. But how long until his resistance runs out? Until his mind goes hazy and his focus fails?

 _Nopenopenope, don’t think about that._ It’s dangerous thinking about that. Like he’s already lost. Wash knows he’s fucked from now until the day he trips into an unremarkable grave, but he’s gonna go down swinging if it kills him.

“Now then, let’s see how it cracks today.”

The crowd murmurs around him, but it’s not enough to drown out the damning mechanical whir behind him. Wash braces for it, but the machine thrusts in regardless, a long, slow stretch that pushes the breath out of him. Punches an unbidden groan out of him. And it keeps on going, thick and long enough he feels it in his throat. Fuck, whatever Hargrove found to fuck him today feels impossibly huge and unthinkably wide and covered in ribs and ridges that press into his walls. Too unyielding. Too intimate. Before he’s ready, the shaft is pulling out, twisting as it goes, and that’s a whole new level of _fuck_.

In. And out. Over. And over. Wash digs his nails into his palms, bites his cheek to keep himself quiet, but he’s failing already. He feels his cheeks flushing, his blood rushing south, and heat welling low in his stomach. _Nopenopenopefuckthisfuckitalltohell._

“Ah, we’re in luck.” Before Wash can jerk away, Hargrove grabs him by the cock. Squeezes tight and strokes him roughly. Wash flinches just as the machine fucks into him again, and his goddamn rebellious dick throbs. “Ladies and gentlemen, I believe the soldier is enjoying this. It’s reacting.”

There’s a beep, and the machine speeds up, rotating so the ridges and nubs rasp over his every nook and cranny. Wash steels himself, leans into the pain like it might save him. But fuck, this thing is huge. Maybe the biggest thing he’s ever taken. Bigger than--

 _Nopenopenopefuckthat!_ He’s not thinking about that. 

Hargrove doesn’t seem to notice. He keeps stroking Wash, leisurely and relaxed, like he has all the time in the world. “I’m sure some of you may argue that it’s merely the effect of physical stimuli. I’m sure deep down in the recesses of it’s broken little mind, the soldier’s trying to convince himself of that fact.” Hargrove palms his cockhead, and Wash can’t help jerking. Struggling. Doing everything he can to get away, get away from the too personal, too clinical sensation. But he bites his tongue and swallows his cries and fights. “But at a certain point, there’s too much evidence for even the most tenacious minds to deny. Do you think we can make him orgasm?”

_Nopenopenopefuckthat!!!_

He shouts before he can stop himself, cringing. He tries to breath, but he can smell his own arousal thick and heavy in the air. He tries to think, but his head is heavy and hazy and full of the crowd’s jeers. He tries, he tries with everything in his being, and he can’t. Can’t stop this. The machine fucking him wide. Hargrove tugging him toward the edge. Can’t stop any of this and can’t save himself. The moment he finishes, Hargrove will have him doped up and sent back into cold storage. Or worse, Hargrove will invite his guests closer, to poke and prod and smear Wash’s shame in his face.

His head hangs low, and his heart beats heavily in his ears. Wash squeezes his eyes shut against useless tears, but he doesn’t give in. Clings to his resolve. Bears everything Hargrove throws at him until the machine drives into him just wrong, and unwanted desire bursts through him, and he spills.

“What did I tell you, ladies and gentlemen? A good little soldier does as it’s tol--”

Then there’s gunfire and screaming and people running. Wash tries to track what’s going on, but the machine keeps thrusting into him. Unending. Restless. Pressing all the sensitive places he would rather left untouched. He gasps, tries to hold onto his composure, but he’s already lost once. His cock twitches as another spurt of cum gets fucked out of him. The machine doesn’t stop.

As his vision goes white, Wash can’t help thinking, _what’s another failure?_

#

_...he floating, something soft covering his body..._

_...not floating... there's a warm and solid presence under him...._

_...he blink his eyes open, sees white armor, a splash of orange at the flank..._

_... his breath catches… “it can’t be,"..._

#

For the first time in ages, the fog is gone. He opens his eyes, stares up at the black metal ceiling, and slowly comes back to himself. He can move. He can think. 

Wash bolts upright and hisses. Every inch of him aches, and something rasps against him. He touches his chest, and his fingers splay across fabric. Actual fabric. An enormous white t-shirt swallowing him--fuck, how much mass has he lost--and sweats pool around his hips. Clothes. Real, actual clothes. His eyes tear up, and not from how hypersensitive his skin is.

 _I’m awake. I’m…_ No, that’s too good to be true. 

Sucking in a harsh breath, Wash swings his legs out of bed and takes in the room. It’s a small residence cabin, probably on a personal spacecraft. Knowing that, he can smell something metallic in the air, an after-effect of recycled air. He presses his feet to the floor; when he feels doesn’t get a shock of cold, he looks down as sees hot pink socks poking out from the hems of these sweat pants. There are smiley faces on them.

A laugh hiccups out of him, bitter and grating and the first willing sound he’s made in...fuck, how long was he in Hargrove’s custody? He doesn’t know. As quickly as it bursts out of him, the laugh twists into a sob. He bites his fists to silence himself. _Later. You can freak out later. Figure out where you are first._

Carefully, Wash leverages himself up off the bed. A hundred new aches and pains light under his skin, but he’s moving. Even if his legs tremble under him. He lists sideways and catches himself against the pullout tray beside the bunk, jostling the hydration packet and bottle of painkillers sitting there. Fuck, he wants to down about a dozen pills and conk out for another couple days. Later, though. Once he knows what’s going on.

Suppressing a groan, Wash makes for the door across from the bunk and pushes it open. 

He steps out into an open cargo hold. Just the one cabin at the stern and an open cockpit at the bow. He can just make out a figure at the controls; he knows that reflective dome helmet, and his heart goes still.

He gasps, stumbling back a step. Pain ripples through him, bringing him to his hands and knees, shaking. “Maine?”

“Washington?” comes a deep voice, but it’s definitely not Maine’s. After flicking a few controls, the man in Maine’s armor stands and approaches him, hands at eye level, palms open in surrender.

That voice. How does he know that voice?

Wash gapes up at his reflection in Maine’s old helmet but he doesn’t have the strength to stand. He remembers how to, but his atrophied limbs won’t obey.

After a minute of silence, the man in Maine’s armor reaches for the neck of the armor, pops the seals and removes the helmet. He doesn’t recognize the man beneath the mask--he’s the epitome of “tall, dark, and handsome,” so much so Wash hates him just a little bit--but there’s a heaviness to his gaze, a weight across his shoulders that’s familiar, and that scar across his face, it looks just like--

“Locus?”

Flinching, the man holds Maine’s helmet tighter, and he won’t meet Wash’s eyes. “I cleaned you up as best I could,” he says, and yeah, that’s definitely Locus’s voice. “I suspect you wouldn’t want me to, but I…” He trails off, uncertain. He clears his throat. “We’re still a few days out from Chorus. General Kimball and the United Army of Chorus have Charon on the run. I can sneak you past the blockade and into the capital. You’ll be safe there.”

Wash freezes, the words rattling through his brain but making no sense. “Wha… Why?”

Locus looks at him, his eyes wide for a split second before he steels himself. “You deserve to recover surrounded by those who care about you.”

“That’s not an answer,” Wash snaps, his voice cracking under all the swarming emotions in his chest. He winces, breathing hard, why the fuck can’t he stop shaking?

The hull rumbles beneath his hands, Locus stopping just within arms reach. He folds to his knees and sets the helmet to the side, cupping his hands in his lap. “I’m sorry,” he says, so quietly Wash thinks he might be dreaming.

Wash glares at him, but Locus still won’t look at him. His chin dips toward his chest. His throat bobs in the quiet. Locus reaches a hand towards him but stops short and curls his fingers into a fist before pulling away. “I’m sorry this happened to you. What happened is something no one should have to endure.”

The compassion is something Wash doesn’t expect, but it feels...off. He can’t put his finger on it, though. Can’t relax either. Wash closes his eyes and tries to piece together the picture in front of him until he can see the gaps he can’t fill. And in the ensuing silence, Locus doesn’t speak, doesn’t move, just averts his gaze and grimaces.

Wash frowns, his chest constricted. “How did you find us?” Because Hargrove isn’t an idiot. If he had a secret shindig for all his friends to watch him break a Freelancer, he’d want to have it somewhere secure.

Locus flushes. Sweat beads on his brow, and why the fuck won’t he meet Wash’s gaze? “The Chairman is a creature of habit. He falls back to his old haunts when he feels threatened.”

“But how did you know where to find him?”

Locus’s shoulders draw up. He stares at the floor like a man contemplating a ledge and his willingness to jump. He blinks to Wash, dark circles around his eyes and a look of pain across his brow. “Because it’s the same location where Felix and I handed you over to him.”

Wash freezes. His stomach twists itself into knots and he moves without thinking, paying no mind the the pain. He doesn’t breathe until the door to the cabin is shut between them and locked from the inside. His hands tremble against the hull, the words looping in his mind. _“Because it’s where Felix and I handed you over.”_ Fuck, he’s gonna be sick.

He scrambles for the fold-away latrine and retches until his head aches and his eyes burn and his knees can’t hold his weight. He lists against the wall and crumples, resting his forehead against the cold wall. 

There are footsteps outside the door, impossibly loud as Locus draws near. Wash presses himself into the corner. Fuck, there’s probably a manual release on the other side of the door. Probably a ventilation panel even someone as broad as Locus can squeeze through. His heart hammers against his ribs, his shoulders tightening. 

“I didn’t know what he planned for you,” Locus says quietly, barely loud enough for Wash to hear around the pounding in his ears. “Not that that excuses anything.” There’s a long pause, but no sound of movement. “I’m won’t pretend to think I’m deserving of forgiveness.”

“Good,” he snaps back, a sour taste in his mouth. 

After another pause, Locus speaks. “There are MREs in the cabinet across from the latrine. Hydration packs as well. I’ll let you know when we’re landing. I can seal myself in the cockpit when the time comes. Try to rest.”

A growl rumbles deep in his chest, a sound he’s never heard come out of him. Decades worth of anger all crystalizing in one moment. “You think a speck of human decency can make this even?” His voice cracks, tears burning down his cheeks. “That _anything_ can make this right?”

“I have no illusions, Washington,” Locus replies. “I’ll get you home, and God willing, you’ll never see me again.”

Wash doesn’t buy it, not for a second, but after a few minutes, Locus’s footsteps retreat, and silence falls over him, and the door stays sealed shut. Doesn’t budge for the next fifty-six hours. Wash counts every second of them. But he feels the rumble of re-entry, hears the cockpit doors shut, holds his breath until he can convince himself to move. Stumbles to his feet, opens the cabin door, and sneaks off. 

His feet land on familiar red-brown dirt, and there’s a warthog full of armored soldiers in different shades of blue approaching, and he collapses. As the shuttle takes off behind him, Wash digs his fingers into the ground and sobs. 

At long last, he’s home.

**Author's Note:**

> Questions, comments, and concrit welcome!


End file.
